Red

by Liesl Shurtliff

  The wolf whined again, pawing at the edge of my path.

  Come. That was all he ever said. Come. He pleaded for me to let him on my path or for me to leave my path and follow him. I wouldn’t, of course, but part of me did wonder what it would be like to run through The Woods with a wolf. Wild. Exciting. Dangerous.

  I wished the wolf would speak to me a little more at least. Other animals were simple, and I understood them simply, but not this wolf. I sensed his depth and complexity, a web of thought and emotions that I couldn’t fully access. I believed he had words and thoughts every bit as intelligent as mine, and I wanted to know what they were.

  Something deeper in the trees creaked. Leaves rustled. The wolf stiffened, then bolted away just as an arrow shot onto the edge of my path, right where the wolf had been.

  An old man stumbled out of the trees. He held a bow and arrow and swung it around in all directions, searching for his prey. It was Horst the huntsman.

  “Which way did he go?” Horst said in a ragged, breathy voice.

  “Who?” I asked.

  His eyes darted about. “The wolf. I saw him just now.”

  “He went that way,” I said. “But I don’t think you’ll catch him.”

  Horst stomped his foot, and dust billowed off him. I’d never been this close to the huntsman before. “Old” was not the right word for him. He was ancient. His skin was ashen, his beard long and grizzled. He was covered head to foot in the skins and furs of all the beasts of The Woods, relics of his earlier days as a strong and able huntsman, though I doubted he could catch a rabbit now.

  “I’ll catch him,” he said. “I’ll catch him like I caught all the others. Got to use your brains, see.” He pointed to his head. “Have to be patient. That wolf is a wily beast, full of tricks, but old Horst knows a thing or two.” Horst lowered his bow and looked at me. He started, as though seeing me for the first time. “What are you doing in The Woods? This is no place for a little girl!”

  “I’m here all the time,” I said. “My granny lives in The Woods.”

  “Your granny?”

  “Rose Red?”

  “Oh, yes, the witch.” He said “witch” casually, the way he might say “the baker” or “the miller.” “I was thinking of paying her a visit,” said Horst. “See if she can help me with this stiffness in my knee.” He tried to move his knee around, and it creaked and cracked like a rusty hinge.

  Granny was not fond of visitors. “I don’t think—”

  A rabbit sprang from a bush. Horst swung around and shot an arrow, but missed. “Rats!” He hobbled after the rabbit, muttering curses beneath his breath.

  Poor Horst. He wasn’t much of a huntsman.

  I sighed and kept walking, switching the cursed basket to my other arm. Wolves and huntsmen. What next?

  I watched for Granny’s house to appear. Any minute now. I’d been to Granny’s a thousand times, and still her house always seemed to appear out of nowhere. At first, all I could see was trees, and then, as I came closer, the trees grew together and changed shape, and then there was Granny’s cottage, moss dangling from the roof, ivy creeping up the walls, smoke rising from the chimney. Roses blossomed all around the cottage, and thick trees stood on each side of the door, like sentinels keeping watch.

  I knocked on the door. “Granny? It’s me, Red.”

  “Come in, child. It’s not locked.”

  I opened the door and stepped into the familiar smell of warm spices and fresh growing things. The ceiling was hung with herbs and flowers, the table and shelves covered with little clay pots and jars and pestle and mortar for potion making. Granny’s rocking chair sat close to the fireplace, with a rabbit-fur rug on the floor for me. This was where we usually sat when Granny told me stories.

  But Granny was not in her chair.

  “Granny?”

  A rustling sound came from the other side of the cottage, near Granny’s bed. I went closer and gave a little yelp. There, in Granny’s bed, wearing Granny’s nightgown and nightcap, was a wolf.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wolf Granny

  “Why, hello, Red,” said the wolf. “Don’t you look tasty—I mean, lovely today.”

  “Oh, Granny,” I said. “What big eyes you have!”

  “The better to see you with, my dear,” said the wolf. “Come closer, will you?”

  I stepped closer. “Granny, what big ears you have!”

  “The better to hear you with, my dear. Come just a little closer.”

  I stepped right beside the bed. “Oh, Granny! What big teeth you have!”

  “The better to eat you with!”

  The wolf opened its jaws and swallowed my head. I shrieked until its teeth tickled my neck, and then I laughed. Finally the wolf stopped and let me go. It reached up with hairy paws and pulled off its head, revealing Granny underneath. She smacked her lips. “You were delicious.”

  Sometimes Granny used a wolf disguise to scare unwanted visitors away. I was generally a wanted visitor, so someone must have come recently.

  “Who was it this time?” I asked.

  “Oh, just some chatty girl.”

  Granny received a steady stream of visitors who wanted their fortunes told, or magical cures for whatever ailments they had. The wolf costume was a quicker way to be rid of people than trying to explain that magic didn’t always do what you wanted it to.

  “This girl would not go away,” said Granny. “She knocked and knocked and chattered endlessly about needing some potion. Finally I had to turn myself into a wolf. Otherwise, I probably would have turned her into a mouse.”

  I laughed. “You couldn’t turn her into a mouse! You wouldn’t!”

  “I could and I would,” said Granny. “Here, watch. I’ll show you. The spell goes like this:

  “Squeak and skitter, tiny critter—”

  “Stop!” I cried. “I don’t want to be a mouse!”

  Granny looked offended. “I wasn’t going to turn you into a mouse. I was going to turn Milk into a mouse.”

  There was a clip-clop on the wooden floor.

  Mmmmaa-aaaa-aa.

  A goat was tethered to the foot of Granny’s bed, chewing on some fresh clover.

  “Why is Milk in the house?”

  Milk was an old nanny goat who no longer gave milk, but Granny kept her around anyway. Milk used to belong to my friend Rump, but then he left The Mountain to go on his own adventures. Before he left, he gave Granny the goat, and she’d become a sort of pet.

  “I couldn’t leave her outside by herself,” said Granny. “There’s a monster in The Woods. They took another pig.”

  “Another pig?” Curse that wolf! That was the second this month. I shouldn’t have given him any pork. Clearly he’d eaten already. I’d have words for him next time. Or stones.

  “I met a wolf prowling not too far from here. Perhaps you should bring the pigs in the house, too.”

  “Not enough room,” said Granny. “I can spare the pigs, but not Milk. She’s a good guard goat.”

  “A guard goat?” The goat bit into a lump of hay and chewed noisily.

  “Yes, she warns me when intruders are coming. She warned me about you.”

  “I’m not an intruder!”

  Mmmaaaa-aaaa-aaaaa.

  “You are to her,” said Granny, laughing, and then her laugh turned into a cough. She blew her nose into her handkerchief, her hands still disguised as wolf paws.

  “Are you sick?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m no songbirdaaa…aaaAAACHIPMUNKS!” Granny sneezed. Her voice sounded stuffy and scratchy. “Did you need something?”

  “I’ve come to stay with you, remember? Mama and Papa are gone.”

  “Oh. Yes, yes, of course I remember. I just forgot. Come, let’s make some supper.”

  Granny slid out of bed, a furry tail she had attached to her nightgown sticking out behind her. She snapped her fingers and started a fire. I carried the kettle.

  While I pulled water from the well, Granny pul
led carrots from the ground, growing them an extra inch or two as they came out. While I chased a chicken with a stick, Granny brushed the dainty white buds of her strawberry patch, and they swelled and blushed into juicy red berries. While I plucked the feathers from the chicken, Granny plucked a sprig of rosemary and multiplied it into three.

  Granny, much like a mother hen, clucked at my pitiful plucking. “Red, dear, you know there are better methods for this.” She waved her hands over the chicken, magically removing all the feathers I hadn’t managed to pull. “Chop some vegetables, will you?”

  I got the kitchen knife and painstakingly chopped carrots and onions. My eyes watered from the onions.

  “Don’t cry, dear,” said Granny. “It’s so unnecessary.” She whispered a spell to the knife, and within seconds the vegetables were perfectly chopped.

  Sometimes I really wished I could do magic. I wished my magic could be like Granny’s. She performed her spells without causing any mayhem. Her magic never harmed anyone. It made everything better. Granny made the whole world wonderful.

  Soon the soup bubbled, and the air smelled of delicious herbs and onions. I got the spoons while Granny served the soup. She swooped her hands in the air, and the ladle dipped itself in the pot and scooped the steaming soup into our bowls. But on the second bowl, the ladle faltered. The bowl toppled from the table and broke in two, splattering soup all over.

  “Oh, dear.” Granny swayed a little and leaned against the table.

  I rushed to her. “What’s wrong?”

  She clasped my arm. Her hands were cold and clammy, despite the warmth from the fire. “I think I overdid it,” she said. “I’m not the sprightly witch I once was.” She tried to laugh but ended up coughing instead.

  “Maybe you should lie down.” I tried to lead her to her bed.

  Granny waved me away. “I’m just famished, is all. I forgot breakfast when that silly girl came nosing around. Let’s eat.” I cleaned up the mess while Granny ladled the soup without magic, using just her own two hands. They trembled ever so slightly.

  We slurped our soup and ate bread spread thick with butter and honey, followed by the juicy strawberries.

  “I spotted a dwarf yesterday,” said Granny.

  I dropped my spoon. “You did? Where?” I had never seen a dwarf. Very few people ever had, but Granny encountered one when she was twelve, same age as me, and her stories made me eager to find one myself.

  “I saw him close to the stream. I tried to follow him, but he disappeared down a hole. In my younger years, I would have caught him.”

  “I can’t understand it,” I said. “I’ve searched for dwarves for ages, and yet you spot one on a morning walk!” I shoved a strawberry in my mouth.

  “Just as well,” said Granny. “Dwarves are crabby, crotchety creatures, secretive and reclusive. They detest humans. Most dwarves go their entire lives without ever coming aboveground. That’s why so few humans ever see one.”

  “I’ll see one,” I said, determined. “I’ve seen a fair few things most humans haven’t.”

  “If you do, keep that hidden.” She pointed to the ruby ring I wore around my neck. Granny had given it to me when I was born. It was supposed to remind me that my name held beauty and magic—or some such nonsense.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Dwarves love rubies. They love all gems, but rubies are their favorite. They’ll steal it from you if they see it. Probably gives them loads of magic.”

  I clutched at the ring. Dwarf magic is powerful indeed, according to Granny. They know where everything is, and their underground tunnels go everywhere: The Kingdom, The Mountain, Yonder, and Beyond. They know every landmark, and they know where to find things. Powerful things. Secret things. Things you never knew existed. Dwarves are little traveling wizards. If you’re ever lost or need to find something, a dwarf can set you straight, but only if you take them by the beard. If you take a dwarf by the beard, they have to do whatever you say, take you wherever you want to go, and tell you whatever you wish to know.

  “One day you’ll catch a dwarf,” said Granny, “and he’ll show you all sorts of secret, magical things. But be warned—dwarves can be nasty little tricksters.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, trying to sound as though I didn’t care. “I have you, and you know more than dwarves.”

  “Huh. I won’t be around forever,” said Granny. She coughed into her sleeve. “Get me some water, would you? I’m parched.”

  I poured a cup of water. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup to her mouth.

  “You’re really sick, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Do you think I’m playacting?”

  “No, it’s just…” I trailed off. It was just that Granny was never sick. For as long as I could remember, she hadn’t suffered so much as a runny nose, and she had a potion to cure every ailment. Last winter I became so ill I could barely breathe, so Granny gave me her Curious Cure-All, a slimy green concoction that tasted like poison, but I was better the next day.

  Of course. That was all Granny needed.

  “Where’s your Curious Cure-All?” I asked.

  “Gone,” said Granny. “You had the last spoonful last winter, remember?”

  Of course. It would be my fault.

  “Can’t you make more?” I asked.

  Granny shook her head. “Not when I’m sick. Difficult ingredients, though you could make it.”

  I stiffened. “You know I can’t.”

  “I know no such thing, and I fancy I know quite a lot. For instance, I know I’m cold. Build up the fire, will you?” She pulled her shawl over her shoulders.

  I put more wood on the fire, then felt her forehead. “You’re very warm.”

  “No, cold,” Granny muttered.

  “Perhaps you should go back to bed. I’ll clean up.”

  Granny coughed, and crawled into bed, her wolf tail still attached to her nightgown. I washed and dried the dishes, scrubbed the pot, then swept the floor. If Granny had been well, it all would have been done much faster. She had a very good spell that could make the broom sweep by itself.

  Sweeping Spell

  Broom awake

  Shoo the dirt

  Clear the floor

  Beneath my skirt

  I had tried it once. The broom attacked me. And maybe broke a few things.

  When everything was clean and put away, I sat in Granny’s rocking chair and listened to the rasp of her breathing. It was nothing, I told myself. Just a little cold. She would be better in the morning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Red Gift

  Granny was not better in the morning. She was worse. She burned with fever and shivered with chills. She coughed and coughed and coughed.

  “You need your Curious Cure-All,” I said.

  “The ingredients are listed on the table,” she said in a raspy voice.

  I went to the table. Granny had all her potion and medicine recipes carved directly into the wood, a jumble of words etched on the top and the legs and even underneath. She said she couldn’t lose them that way.

  I searched the table. There was a recipe for curing baldness (2 scoops of troll droppings and 1 fuzzy caterpillar) and one for rashes and bites (3 sprigs of lavender, 2 drops of frog slime, and 2 spits from a witch, though any spit will suffice).

  Finally I found it.

  Curious Cure-All

  5 prickly chestnuts

  1 handful of wild cherries

  1 bunch of gnomeswort

  So far, these ingredients would be easy to find. I read on.

  1 drop of pixie venom (wear gloves)

  “Pixie venom!” I shouted. “For medicine?”

  “Powerful stuff,” said Granny.

  Undoubtedly. One bite from a pixie was as painful as a hundred bee stings.

  1 pair of tree-nymph wings

  “How am I supposed to tell the nymph wings from leaves?” I asked.

  “You have to pluck them right off the tree nymph,” s
he said. “Otherwise, they don’t work.”

  “Isn’t that a bit cruel?”

  “They grow back,” she croaked. “They don’t mind.”

  Even if I could find a tree nymph, I’d never be able to catch it. I’d tried many times without success, but that seemed a small concern when I saw the last ingredient:

  7 wolf hairs

  “Can I get some wolf fur from your tail?”

  “It’s rabbit. Besides, wolf fur is best when it’s fresh. Just ask nicely.”

  “Ask who?”

  “A wolf, of course. Who else?”

  I sighed. Sometimes Granny could be exasperating. She said crazy things as though they were completely normal and then made you feel crazy for thinking what she said was crazy. Asking questions only made it worse.

  “Is the wolf fur an essential ingredient?” I asked.

  “Of course it’s essential, otherwise it wouldn’t be on the list of ingredients. Now stop asking me silly questions. It’s giving me a headache.” I abandoned the Curious Cure-All recipe and instead made lavender honey tea to soothe Granny’s cough. I placed the cup to her lips, but she barely drank. I tried pressing cold cloths to her burning forehead, but she tossed and turned and talked nonsensically.

  “Snow?” said Granny. “Is that you?” Snow was her sister, who had died long ago.

  “Granny, it’s me. Red.”

  “Red,” said Granny. “I was Red once. Rose Red, they called me. Oh, I was beautiful. Just gorgeous. Everybody said so.”

  “You’re still gorgeous,” I said.

  “Ha.” She began to laugh, but then coughed, and the pain of it seemed to bring her back to awareness. “Oh, Red, it’s you,” Granny whispered, as though seeing me for the first time. “Happy birthday.”

  “It’s not my birthday,” I said.

  “Of course it isn’t. It’s mine.”

  Granny’s birthday? She had never mentioned it before, not once, but of course she had one. Why had I never considered it? She just seemed timeless somehow, like she always stayed the same age.